


When Goodbye Comes

by LadyFangs



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-22
Updated: 2017-05-22
Packaged: 2018-11-03 18:00:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10972491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyFangs/pseuds/LadyFangs
Summary: "In my mind, I wish we’d never left our farm."Ragnar and Lagertha say goodbye for the last time.Copy Edited 8/26/17.





	When Goodbye Comes

**When Goodbye Comes**

She studies his face as they sit across from each other by the fire.

He is older now, with dark circles under his eyes. Fine lines have appeared on his head, tattoos once bold and bright--now faded against his skin. His clothes are worn and tattered. The beard, more gray than brown. He looks so tired. It makes her heart ache. 

Their conversation is quiet. He speaks few words, and she answers with even less. There have been many failures, ones he acknowledges, and she confirms. It is strange, this place they are in. She is an earl, powerful and growing more so by the day. He is a fallen king.

“Where have you been?” She is curious.

Nowhere and everywhere, he says. In a place called a desert, where there is no water. She cannot imagine such a place. Lagertha pours him more drink, and he accepts.  They sit in companionable silence.

“I regret what happened between us,” he says. “I have made many, many bad choices,” he gestures with his hands.

“We all approved of your ideas.” It comes out firm, yet gentle. “But, they didn’t work. Ragnar Lothbrok did not succeed.”

He smiles a small, sad smile.

“I should go to bed now, I am tired,” he says, blowing out the fire on a stick.

“It has been a long journey.” The words are slow. Reserved.

“Not in the body,” he taps his head. “In the mind.”

“All of our journeys are in the mind.”

At this, his eyes settle directly on hers. And when he speaks again, it is with both sincerity and intensity. Regret. She knows he is speaking from his soul.

“In my mind, I wish we’d never left our farm. Forgive me all of my faults, all of my failings.”

He smiles ruefully, and stands up. A slight grimace crosses his face as he moves toward her, coming close. She breathes him in, staring up into his eyes, still as blue as the sea, and roiling with the intensity of ocean currents. She has always been able to read them, so emotive—every thought, every feeling. He could be as still as the trees and yet his eyes will tell her everything, as they do now. She feels her heart beat faster as he leans in. She holds her breath as she feels his blow across cross her cheek, the whiskers of his beard brushing against the side of her face, making her skin tingle. The gentle kiss he lays on her temple is almost enough to break her.

“No regrets,” he says and turns away, but she catches him, and guides his lips back to hers.

“And yet, every regret,” her voice cracks, and she kisses him softly, deeply.

Lovingly.

She lets him go with tears in her eyes, but they do not fall as she watches him leave her hall to  sleep in the tiny house nearby. It is only this she can give him now.

Later, as her lover sleeps beside her, Lagertha is restless. She cannot be still. When she closes her eyes it is the goddess Freya on her chariot, calling her to come. And so she leaves Astrid in the bed, and slips outside the hall, her feet carrying her to the small guest house paces away.

 

**II  
**

It has been a long time since he lay on a proper bed. He struggles to sleep, but it eludes him. Finally after a long while, he moves to the floor.

Coming here had been a risk. He did know whether he would be accepted in her home. He has relied on the kindness from strangers and the past six years have been a studied practice in humility. There have been moments of desperation, where he has been so weak he thought he would not live. And each time, someone has saved him.

Ragnar has tested his will against the wilds, using his wits to outsmart predators who viewed him as prey. He has been alone, and he has been lonely. Now it is time to come back, to finish his journey where it began. This is his final journey. He must make amends for his transgressions, to try and right the wrongs he has brought to those he loves.

Lagertha.

His former wife has shown him charity. And he is grateful because he knows he is undeserving  of it.

Ragnar tosses and turns but still cannot get comfortable. He rests on his back, staring up at the ceiling, noting the intricate weaving of the sticks that form the walls, remembering a time when he built a home for his family on the beach with his own hands, taking breaks only to carry Lagertha off into the trees and make love to her, before starting work again. They made love in that house. They made children in that house. They were a family in that house. Oh, how misses that farm! He would gladly give everything back to have that life and her love, again.

And by the gods (God?), _how_ has she managed to stay so perfect? Age has not touched her, nor time dimmed her beauty. If anything, she has grown even more lovely.

He believes the first knocking sound is in his mind. But the second he doesn’t miss. It is very late. Morning will be coming soon.

When he opens the door she is standing there in a thin nightgown. The moonlight casts off her hair making her glow. It is cold, and he can see her breasts through the thin fabric of the nightgown she wears. He starts to say something but she stops him, stepping inside and putting a finger on his lips before replacing it with her own.

 He kisses her back, first unsure. But she does not pull away, and the kiss deepens as he presses her against him, feeling her—so soft and firm at the same time.

Desire is something that has not stirred in Ragnar in a long time. But it does now, and he can feel himself growing harder, his pants suddenly too tight. Her hands move down to assist him as she keeps his lips on his. Hurriedly, he removes the layers of shirts until he stands before her, baring both his body, and his soul.

 She pulls back, and slowly unties her gown, letting it fall from her shoulders to the floor.

They pause, studying each other.

She sees her ex-husband as he is now. His body still as strong as it has ever been, muscles carved from a lifetime of battles and labor, the skin marked by deep wounds healed long ago that serve as reminders of battles won and lost. There is more weight now, around his middle, but it is not unattractive. He is still beautiful to her. He always has been. A son of Odin. A child of the gods themselves. She traces the circular scar above his left eye with her fingers, while her other hand caresses his chest, touching each raised scar, the gray hairs even here now.  Slender fingers drift down and further still, until she reaches his manhood, stroking him, teasing him, touching him. 

It jumps at her touch, the skin like that of a snake, twitching and tensing. Her fingers dip below, fondling.

The skin here is smoother, the sacks soft and heavy. She pulls him closer to her as she watches his face. Ragnar's eyes are closed, his head back as deep moans escape his lips. This is different now. He has always been so dominant, but it is now her who controls his pleasure, and she will not release him. It’s like he is seeing for the first time. The pounding of his own heart echoes in his ears. The heat of his own blood races through his veins. Each touch of hers sends shocks through his body. He is helpless, and he surrenders himself to her.

She has pushed him backward and he lands on the bed staying still, losing himself in all the things she is doing to his body right now. He cannot control his body's reactions, nor does he want to. She hovers over him, lips on his neck, his chest, his stomach. He is hers now and he imagines this is what it is like to lay with Freyja herself. He cries out as she lowers herself onto him, and like reflex he reaches to grab her ass, pulling her down as he pushes his hips up, sinking his hardness inside her, and joining their bodies together. 

“I want to ride you,” Lagertha whispers, her breasts grazing his chest. “Like a boar.” She’s said similar words before, but they have so much more meaning now.

He knows now that he has always been her boar, like Freyja’s Hildisvini, her lover in disguise. He sees it all, everything that has been, in new light. She is baptizing him in her body, purifying his soul with her love. His passion flares anew and he sits up, keeping her on his lap as he bends her backward to bite her neck and allow his tongue to lap gently at her breasts, catching her nipples between his teeth before soothing them with his lips.

She begs for him and he surges to her with determination and desire.

He lifts them both, turning them around so that he can lay her on her back.

It is his turn now and he is not gentle.

He takes her hard, slowly, painfully, each thrust eliciting cries from them both. She digs her nails down his back, grabbing his ass, urging him deeper inside her body.  He gives her all he has, all he is.

Friend, lover, father, mother, enemy… they fuck. The bed groans and they lose themselves in each other, riding each other until they can’t climb any further. She is crying now her arms around his neck, his mouth on hers tasting. They are two people blending into one--both desperate and unwilling to let go.

They fuck. Until she is screaming his name in orgasm and he bites down hard on her shoulder, her skin stifling his groan as his seed spills into her body, carrying with it his heart and soul. He wants to mark her, give her something she will not soon forget. A parting gift, and a promise, one he swears will not be broken this time.

She has learned from him, grown with him, and she carries his legacy in their son and in her will to survive. He knows she will take over Kattegat, and he whispers his blessing as they come down from the clouds. He tells her that he will soon die—in his own way. Of his own devising. He tells her to look out for him--she will know when it happens. He will visit her again on his way to the golden gates.

Her tears fall on his face, and they are like salve to open wounds, stitching him back together, giving him new strength to complete his journey.

She gave him her heart thirty years ago, and now she has given him so much more.

Absolution.

**Afterward**

She stands on the hill watching as he rides away. The wind blows her hair, revealing the marks he’s left on her skin. Her dress hides the rest—hand prints from where he gripped her hips, the bite marks on her breasts, chest and neck. Her lips are tender and between her legs is sore. She feels alive again.

Later, in Kattegat, in the bed they once shared, she is awakened from her sleep by the sound of someone walking. It is dark, but there is a glow coming from the great hall. She calls out, but no one answers, and she goes to look.

A single tear falling from her face at the sight.

Ragnar has kept his promise. He has come back, and she knows now, that her beloved is dead.

He appears to her bathed in light, looking like the man he was when they were young and poor and in love, when his hair was long, the hair she braided lovingly at night. He smiles that mischievous smile, the one she fell for so many, many years ago.

“I knew you would come my love,” she whispers to his ghost.

“Enjoy Valhalla, you deserve it. But do not forget me. Haunt me. Do not leave me.”

.

.

The golden gates reach toward the sky before him, and he can hear the sounds of revelry and laughter. He has traveled a great distance to be here. Valhalla. He has seen this place before, and approaches cautiously, remembering how these doors closed to him, and fearful that they may do so again.

 As he gets closer, the light shines brighter, and he covers his eyes with his arm to shield his sight. He knows that he must go on.

He takes the first step, the second, the third and the gates remain open. Ragnar Lothbrok continues walking into the light. He is suddenly struck by lightning all around him—it races through his veins, singing his flesh and he is being ripped apart. He screams in agony as everything goes dark.

.

.

He awakens with a start, unsure of where he is. He is on a beach, seagulls flocking above him. There is earth and there is sky, and he wonders what has happened? He lifts himself up and stands, surveying what is around him. It is familiar…and he swallows hard, blinking, slapping himself to make sure this is no dream.

It is his house. His farm.

 Ragnar walks slowly to the door, and hesitates, afraid of what will, or won’t be there. Is this a trick of the gods? If it is, he is being punished in death, just as he was in life. He steadies himself and pushes open the door.

 “Father! Father!”

Bjorn and Gyda rush to him, and wrap themselves around his legs pulling him to the floor. He embraces them, holding them close, his tears wetting their hair. They are small children still.

“Ragnar?” He looks up, into the eyes of his wife, Lagertha, smiling down on him and he raises a shaking hand to her stomach. It is round, as if the day could be today, or tomorrow, or forever.

And now he knows. This is Valhalla. The gods have carried him home.

He makes love to his pregnant wife, and he dotes on his children. He has been granted a second chance to live his life again. And this time, he will make a very different choice.


End file.
